


BBCSH 'Benefits of Curry'  [PG-13]

by tigersilver



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-21
Updated: 2012-04-21
Packaged: 2017-11-04 02:23:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/388645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tigersilver/pseuds/tigersilver
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pointless unbeta'd fluff. John haz...Food Grudge(?)</p>
            </blockquote>





	BBCSH 'Benefits of Curry'  [PG-13]

BBCSH ‘Benefits of Curry’

Author: tigersilver

WC: 2800

Rating: PG-13 (language) 

Pairing: S/J  
Warnings: Pointless unbeta'd fluff.

  


  


_Boo-yah_ , John thinks, practically rubbing his hands with glee. _Curry!_

But there’s a long pale hand snaking out and the plate’s spinning across short inches—it’s square-ish and heavy enough, restaurant-grade china, and how does the arse _do_ that without it slopping? 

“No fair,” is what John says instead of asking about the circus (Sherlock as a plate spinning dervish? Intriguing…yes). His eyes are beady and squinched up over the crime scene, and he visibly pouts.  At times it can be remarkably effective, his pouting. For this reason only he exercises some restraint using it. Sherlock is the active pouter in their relationship by default; he's no interest in rocking the boat. Still, John tries it on: “Give it back, Sherlock. Better yet, order your own. This is mine.” 

“Mmm.” Sherlock grins, eyes glittering, the unabashed Monkey King he is, and snatches up a bite on his fork. “Delicious, John. You should taste this.” 

Licks his bee-stung lips and waves the second forkful under John’s flared nostrils so the smell is so, so tempting wafting up, all garlic and garam masala and cumin, cilantro like a scatter of emerald slivers atop basmati, and John’s mouth is watering like an oasis. He gulps, he’s salivating so. He’s been famished for bleeding hours upon hours and Sherlock is—among other things—very much not the definition of a proper gentleman at this particular moment of finally settling down for a nosh. He’s a scoundrel, a devil—the very imp of Satan.  John, if pressed, might conceivably hate him…maybe.

“…Yum.” 

It’s that one little syllable that does it for John; it’s almost _obscene_.  
  
His head implodes with fury to hear _that_ word issuing from _that_ mouth in particular; all sweetly shaped and pretty in pink as he enunciates blasphemy, fleshy swells smeared with the faintest transparent sheen of turmeric-shaded sauce. And there’s a single, perfect, elongated ovoid rice grain balanced precariously upon the luscious lower lip, near one complex corner, which is tantamount to high treason/insult-and-injury in John’s book. That’s _his_ curry, right there; all his and now Sherlock’s gotten hold of it and it is abso-fucking-bloody-lutely _not fair_. 

He snorts; Sherlock smirks. Also chews, methodically but with his uncanny eyes rolling in theatrical delight over his purloined prize. John could murder him blind for the display, that he could.

It is not as though John has not been sorely tempted before by Sherlock, no. Assassination as a workable concept rings a little silver bell on the fringes of his superego.

John’s champion over many minor irritations; never puts up too much of a fuss…but there’s the one little line item in their partnership, one line he’d rather his mate never cross: John’s got a food grudge, Olympian sized, and Sherlock knows it. He’ll share with Sherlock, yes, if he feels it’s imperative for Sherlock’s health to eat something, anything, even if it’s his, _but_. ‘But’ is a big ‘but’ and John knows in his bones Sherlock’s not really in danger of expiring from malnutrition at the moment. Sherlock consumed toast with marmalade just yesterday and half a cuppa.

This, then, is a contemptible move on the consulting detective’s part, designed solely to wind John up. It’s working.

“I,” he announces grimly, laying down his unused fork and casting aside his unblemished serviette in a manner that metaphorically bellows ‘War! Man the frigging Gatlings, men! Tonight we fight for our England!’ 

“Mm?” 

“ _I_ ,” he repeats patiently, “will show you ‘yum’, you food-snatching, irritating CREEP! You pusillanimous wretch of a pathetic excuse for a decent human being!” He inhales; exhales slowly, for emphasis. “Give it over. Right now, Sherlock.” 

“Mmmnphf.”  His busily masticating flat-mate shakes his head, expressing ‘No!’  Also: ‘Make me!’ He's not all bothered to be verbally cast in the slough of the sinners. 

John rises, like Thor balanced upon a columnar cloud of majestic godly disapproval (these small mortals, how they do run!), and leans militantly across the narrow wedge of a table. This like the almighty Jove, prepared to enact some awesome smiting upon the lilywhite plains of Sherlock’s skinny buttocks in retribution. He augustly lowers his tawny head so he can level a banner-blue stare of disapprobation directly into the miscreant’s wide-open, mock-innocent, grey as a storm-cloud  gaze. He’s not a tall man but for once in his life he positively looms. _Looms_. And the prat of a pillock only just twists the corners of his lips at him in return—and licks those selfsame lips—and mouths the evil syllable ‘yum’ _. Again._

“Mmmm…” Sherlock draws it out, the sodding twat. “Come on, John. Have some.” The plate is firmly in his territory now (as defined by placemat space) and John is livid.

 “Arrgh! How am I s’posed to? You have it, you stinker!”  

John is _not_ amused. The trespass is too great. He is strangled by irritations, great and small. 

“Oh, John,” Sherlock murmurs. Indulgently, the beast. 

_Fear me!_ John’s quick reaching hands say, as they curl about Sherlock’s thin wide shoulders and briefly encircle his kissable neck before skittering off to grip curls in an ‘I mean business; do not dare trifle with me, foolish mortal’ manner. _Cower, you yellow-bellied dinner-grabber!_ John’s heavy-lidded gaze requires of his mate, as his eyes narrow even more menacingly and he at last goes in for the _coup de grace_ his artless, conniving bastard of a flat-mate has driven him to. And only deserves. 

“Fucker,” he pronounces succinctly, descending upon his hapless (smirking, chewing, ‘yum’-saying) flat-mate like the ruddy hammers of Hell. “Thief.” He is rendered well nigh breathless with mounting and completely  understandable ire. “Berk. Twat. _And_ a bloody _tease,_ Sherlock! How dare you take my curry? Who asked you?” 

“Pish-tosh,” Sherlock snickers. “Nonsense.” Scoops another forkful of John’s curry— _his_ curry. _His_. “John,” he swallows and his throat bobs in a _come-hither, you can’t_ not _want me now_ sort of way. “Turns out I am peckish...just a bit. You know you’ll share. Don’t be like that.” 

“I’ll be, Sherlock,” John growls (nay, it’s more he purrs…or groans…or grits? Who can tell? His teeth are clenched to adamantine hardness, reducing regular words to splinters), “what ever I damned well _want_ to be. And I’ll _be_ —“ he draws a preparatory breath, ”the judge of that! Of what I share.”

“Oh, rea—“ 

All-Conquering John Watson (did he mention he was decorated for bravery? He knows Sherlock knows—and delights in it, the little fool, so ignobly innocent) lays his pinched-in, pursed-up lips (mercifully silent of curses, blissfully virginally free of the raft of Army language he’s accumulated along the way, all the ruby-blood, oil-tar words that would blister the pure white skin straight off those high-tension, high-mannered bones in an instant) upon the yellow-tinted, rice-infested mouth of his particular thorn-in-side. That is to say, John Watson, patient medic, ex-officer, places most deliberately his common-garden oral orifice over top the amber smear that is damp-streaked  across the heart-shaped, scarlet-smirking bow and—too; this is most important--the fleeting mischievous smile which haunts and flits mercurially about that damnably enticing, sinfully sycophantic set of pillowy arcs of transient flesh. 

In other words…fewer words: 

…They kiss. French. Swap spit. Because it is a mutual desire raging like a sudden lightning storm across the disputed curry, this hunger they share and share alike, and further, it was engineered, willfully, from the moment of plate-stealing. By a wily detective, indeed, and (honestly) in full collusion with the world’s only consulting detective’s only personally hand-picked blogger, the same (sad) man who is sure to expire of any one of the following conditions very shortly: 

  1. Satisfaction 
  2. Smugness
  3. Hunger
  4. _Also_ hunger
  5. Lust
  6. Annoyance
  7. Passion
  8. Did he mention _hunger_?
  9. _Embarrassment_ : defined for our purposes as ‘an embarrassment of riches’ (they kiss, for god’s sake: Sherlock tastes heavenly and of John’s own curry; curry is, in fact, exchanged orally). Plus a humiliating awareness they are being observed by a room of fascinated strangers, all agog. Plus _also_ , (this to be considered later, and likely only by John) the emergent realization that this rather decent eatery will become yet one more restaurant on the ever-growing list in which the overly-helpful staff will for evermore scramble to instantly produce lit candles, fresh flowers in vases, and to provide the most intimate of seating areas available, upon the instance of entry of one Sherlock Holmes and his accompanying John. This John _knows_ in a far-distant, mildly irksome way…but he (mostly) does not care, currently. Much.  



He does care about _his_ curry, very much so, thanks, but it seems as though Sherlock is more than willing to share and share alike, judging by the reciprocal tongue action. That’s alright then; there’s more than enough for two. John can be generous about lending part of his long-desired dinner to his mate if need be…which is more than Sherlock ever is about minding the impact of his mad scientist experiments upon the usual detritus of their kitchen, including the larder contents and the fridge as a protem mortuary-cum-milk chamber. Sherlock is staunchly against food and it’s normal regular consumption in general. If he’s decided to make an exception, John can only be pleased. 

Oh, yes. 

They _kiss_. Put their backs into it, like proper men going about a job of work. They _strive_. No, it's more—they snog like bloody hormonal striplings in the rear seat of John’s Mum’s ancient rattling Anglia and at times (after John collapses gently across the table and fully into Sherlock’s welcoming lap) they venture perilously close to mouth-shagging in public. This is a snog that deserves being examined and labeled ‘indecent exposure’. It is a snog that is purely epic, in its own way. 

Oddly enough, no one in the restaurant seems to object. Not one single other diner, nor the staff, wide-eyed and giggle-snorting by the curtained off alcove leading to the kitchens. Especially as every other diner present, including themselves, is still cheerily bolting down their food accompanied by much smacking of lips, swallowing throats, indistinct huffs and varied mumbled sounds of enjoyment.

They’ve gone and spawned _appetites_ , is what. A roomful of them. John cares not to consider the crime wave that might arise from all this packed-in passion.

“There,” Sherlock says plaintively, some while later, when the plate’s been pushed aside scoured empty of a rather ace curry and both sets of well-used lips are tainted yellow and feel slightly oily to the touch. “I’ve ingested sufficient calories, I think, to fuel my system. You, John, have bolted down your precious curry—or most of it, at least. The naan is all gone; our glasses are depleted of drink. May we please return home now?” 

“And do what, exactly?” John wants to know, licking away the last tasty streaks from his lips and rubbing his stained chin clean with a handy serviette, probably Sherlock's. “Watch crap telly?” 

“…No.” 

He shifts his hip, preparatory to removing himself from Sherlock’s immediate vicinity (these L-shaped booths with banquet seating are really most convenient for two fools in lus—er, _love_ , he notes in passing. He will press for eating at this place more often in the future, that's certain.) However, John does not share the thought with his dinner companion, fearing derision.

“…Tease.”  He says, also fearing the area between his legs and pelvic cradle and encompassed by the term ‘groin’, which is growing absurdly more painful with every passing moment. “Bleeding tease. You're scheming something, aren't you?” 

“No.” Sherlock manages to come across as one royally affronted, the git. He flattens a long palm against the possibility of his own cock-blocking. “No, of course not, John. Never.” 

John snorts, softly. He may be in process of being played; may’ve been played already—who knows? 

“I wouldn’t,” Sherlock assures him. John scowls bleakly. 

Food plays, John is aware, when undeniably sexual in intent and as initiated by his canny flat-mate, are all very well, very good, sometimes super-fantastic  and sometimes often even approaching quite _hot-and-bothering_ level on the everyday porn scale, but…Sherlock’s like a python, really. One good baby goat stuffed in him (symbolically if not literally) and all he wants to do after feeding his remarkable face is flop about and drowse upon the divan. John’s not having that. He’s other appetites to be slaked now his belly’s (somewhat) full and Sherlock’s his most favoured (read ‘only conceivable’) physical outlet, so Sherlock should be made plainly—unmistakably--aware John’s not to be put off by a post-case, post feed-bag torpor. Even if John has effectively given in and rolled like a rug over the Curry Contretemps, he’ll not be railroaded out of his expected Holmesian forensic- style shag. (Sherlock, when inclined, is nothing if not thorough in all he does. Thank _god_.) 

“Oh, for mercy’s sake! Harrumph! Come _along_ , John. It’s time to _go_.”  His flat-mate affects derision and disdain. John sneers; he knows better than to trust that Look. 

“I don’t think so; not so fast,” he advises Sherlock sedately, resisting till he’s slung down the last drops of his beer. “You owe me a good fuck, Sherlock. Don’t even consider skiving.” 

“I’d never.” 

“Yes, you would,” John asserts, steadfastly. “Have; will again, I’m sure.” 

“Non-believer. I’m appalled by your lack of faith, John.” 

It’s difficult to be quelling when one is burping gently and being simultaneously dragged off one’s seat but he manages. And Sherlock persists in drawing him along and scattering notes upon the cloth with abandon (does the idiot-wonder ever even _see_ how much he throws away on a daily basis? John ponders, before concluding that Sherlock is and will be always, quite spendthrift.) 

“It’s not a lack of faith so much as...as,” John mutters, eying Sherlock sideways under the streetlight.

“As what? Taxi!” 

In a trice they are ensconced in one. John frowns at his companion’s profile, Byronic in the flashing-past lights of a London evening. 

“You…won’t nod off, will you?” he prods grimly, folding his lips thin. His tongue and points further south are still enjoying the aftereffects of a nice warm chilli-garlic-ginger burn. He wouldn’t like to waste it. “You’ll stay awake, Sherlock?” 

“Umm-hmmm,” Sherlock nods absentmindedly and John scowls. “Of course, John.” 

There’s no ‘of course’ about it. 

John is glad he’s been fuelled up by one of his most favoured dishes. Curry is hands-down the best at inspiring him to take chances, kick arse, collect names and generally muscle-and-shove forward through all manner of adversities (most of them, he admits, Sherlockian in nature.) Too, he’s noted that Angelo’s food, though lovely in its own right, tends to leave him feeling laggard and doughty afterwards, as if the mass of boiled pasta settles in his legs and gut and literally weights him down. He still isn’t clear as to where that startling burst of energy arose from on their very first night together  and as of now—a distance of a deal of fuzzy time later—he can only blame it upon Sherlock himself. 

The man is potent. Catalytic. Cataclysmic. And difficult to manage.  But John has his ways.

“Hmm.” 

He slides his hand across the two inch stretch of seat between and gently takes charge of Sherlock’s bits. They swell sweetly ‘neath his palm and groping fingers as he massages them through the thin skein of high-grade wool-weave and Sherlock sighs heavily, soulfully, swiveling his gaze to meet John’s full on.

“Oh! I’m,” he says, clearly unhappy over it. “John, I’m…” John automatically leans over, encouraging. 

“Yes?” 

“Still…hungry,” Sherlock pouts, and John is ecstatic to hear it, absolutely chuffed. He chuckles. 

“Oh, really? Is that so?” 

“Yes!” Sherlock snarls and shifts his narrow arse across the seat so they’re met and matched, from shoulder to waist to hip to thigh and kneecap and even ankles, twining and knocking bone-to-bone: one person made of two together, Siamese-twinned. “Damn it.”  His hand settles over John’s busy one, patting it. “Damn _you_.” 

“Hah!”

John grins. He’s won! He’s won and Sherlock admits it and this evening will only be made of yet more ‘win’.  It’s more than worth the loss of his full plateful (one serving of curry does not two full-grown men feed properly, no) and the little rumble in his tummy region that indicates the nagging need for more substance. He doubts he’ll be dwelling on that minor issue shortly anyway—and it’s not the end of the world if he goes to sleep still hungry on one basic molecular level. He won’t, in any way, be left a’tall dissatisfied, on others. 

“Don’t see why that’s a cause for celebration,” Sherlock mutters. “It’s not how you usually react when I say I’m hungry.” 

“Yes, well…it’s still, um, fantastic,” John replies smoothly, subtly shouldering closer to Sherlock's radiant woolen warmth, resisting the inner urge to cheer and gaily whistle ‘Hail Britannia’. “Really, Sherlock. Glad to hear.” 

“You make no sense, John,” Sherlock growls, a grumpy rumble that sets his chest vibrating, and casually pushes John’s still fondling hand harder down upon his rampant cock. It’s not at all a discontented sound, though, the growl. More...predatory.  
  
"Hmm," John hums. Grins. 

“...Never can sort you…” the genius is mumbling, even though his dick is thrusting up between John’s knuckles and a blind man—no, a dead man—could see what’s happening here. John grins and grins, and cannot seem to control himself at all—nor does he care, much.

It’s the sound of _appetite_ , rising, and John salivates in Pavlovian response. 

He’s hungry, too, sod it, and the taxi ride is very long when one is reduced to counting out each and every second to arrival—and the achingly incendiary promise of privacy. But….

_Boo-yah!_ John muses happily to himself, smiling wide and blindly exultant at the dim interior of the cab. _Sherlock._ Yum.

  


  



End file.
